The things you never thought to touch
by indiaga
Summary: Just a series of probably entirely disconnected, unrelated Tiva fluff/angst. because, clearly, there isn't enough on here. From both POV's, as well, sometimes, as those of other characters...nothing too serious/important, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.
1. Tony, oh Tony

**I am avoiding my damn French presentation, singing along to Nouvelle Vague (Making Plans for Nigel, if you're interested) and eating butterscotch Angel Delight. I'm sure life can get a lot better than this, but I was happy enough to start writing, and I'm hoping this might turn into a kind of fluffy angst series. Or angsty fluff. Or flangst. Ew. That sounds like a fungal infection. **

**But you don't particularly want to read a transcript of every thought I ever have, so here goes:**

**(Nigel is happy in his work, lalala....)**

**Seriously. Here goes:**

***Disclaims violently***

**OK:**

Once, he'd woken with her head upon his shoulder, her light snores filling the air like marbles. He had kept his eyes shut and his breathing low and regular, and just relished the feel of her surprisingly soft weight against his body. Her heat permeated. Her lips were pink.

Once upon a time, in a warzone, he had faced her, told her words that made the smile in her eyes stutter and retreat. _I'd wish you luck, but I want the bastard dead too. _Curious, how a conviction he had felt to the core of his bones, his very belonging in this world, now seemed so fluid, inconsequential. _Did it matter who died? Really?_

The voice he knew so well, the one that whispered malice into his blood and pumped it to his heart, replied.

_Oh, you know the answer. You don't care if anyone dies, anyone but her. As long as it's not her._

He would not sleep.

* * *

He wanted to stroke her hair when she wore it curly. It looked so sleepy and young, made her face seem peaceful. Maybe he'd rather stroke that instead, feel her skin, her lips, the delicate shells of her eyelids. He'd watched them flicker when she had bad dreams. It made something low in his stomach twist and clench.

Her softly waking eyes, confused in their sincerity...oh, it fluttered and released.

* * *

He'd caught her arm once, in warning, but he hadn't been angry enough to not notice how slight she was. He felt the muscles flexing underneath her hot skin, an arrogant facade, but further down, clinging deeper, he'd felt her bones.

It made him feel like he was looking straight at her soul.

He'd let her go, and let her depart, and wondered whether he'd ever see her again.

* * *

She loves to sing, a low, jagged thing that he once heard when she thought she was alone. It was in Hebrew, the guttural sounds making her even more dangerous than he knew. But it was a young voice, full of a disarming grace that went beyond her years in some ways, and did not touch them in others. And then he had taken in a breath, and she had started, and had the humanity to blush.

* * *

Sometimes he wondered whether it was blood that flowed in her veins. Sometimes, her eyes had implied it was poison. Sometimes, liquid bullets.

What scared him more than anything was the thought, the very possibility, that, instead of blood, there was nothing.

That she was empty.

That was what scared him more than anything.

* * *

He often sensed a little electric buzz, a thrill, when she brushed his skin. It was nothing more than a lazy, questioning tingle. _Yes, Mr DiNozzo? Can I help you? What _do_ you think I imply?_

* * *

He didn't cry often, our Mr DiNozzo, but when he did it was with good reason, and pure intent. It was never to manipulate, or to inspire guilt. And so, when she saw him so close to tears so very many times after the departure of the good, good doctor it killed her to know the sincerity. The only words that clung to her tongue were things he wouldn't want to hear. _There will be others. She wasn't the only one. She wasn't perfect. There will be others, Tony, do you understand what I'm saying to you?_ But of course he wouldn't, so she didn't. And they never.

* * *

**OK, so this one was a bit stream of consciousness, not really linked at all...or following any sort of plan/pattern...or logic...****but I hope it is enjoyable nonetheless. As I have SOOOO much other work to do, I'll probably be updating loads in the next couple of days...I'm contrary like that :) Enjoy!! And reviews are always much appreciated :) **


	2. Green silk and pretty lips

**This is something very weird that I wrote instead of doing my Mai 68 French presentation. You might remember me making references to it about 2 months or so ago...yeah, it's still not done. So, this is from Ziva's POV and there might be some grammatical/vocabularial (It's a real word) mistakes. It has a sort of rhythm (at least in MY head) and might not make very much sense...becoming a bit of a pattern, methinks.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned, you would know about it.**

Sometimes when he looks at me, I think there might be something more than lazy eyes and confidence and mindless entertainment. I have studied him so much over the past – what was it? – four years, that I think I know his face so very better than my own. His forehead creases when he is sincere and full of sorrows, and his eyes become caged and wary. Guarded. I see myself in them, and it does not make me smile.

When I met him, the first time, the time he did not know me and did not understand me at all, he gazed at me with curiously appraising eyes and I wondered whether men were the same the entire world over, they see a pretty face and a pretty body and cannot help but imagine themselves kissing that pretty face, on that pretty body. I grew used to it when I was in the army. I eventually used it to my advantage.

Many men were killed because of my pretty face.

They say it is my eyes.

But it does not matter what it is, because at that time Tony wanted it – even just a little – and strangely, I was willing to give it to him.

A strange and empty father, that sends a daughter out into the world to sleep with men and kill them afterwards. Sometimes right in the middle, and that was the worst. Feeling them fade away inside me. It was like I was fading with them. Perhaps I was.

When I arrived, I wore khaki and canvas and tied my hair up in a scarf. It was who I was, hard and prepared. A lethal savage. And then once, when I was shopping for groceries late in the evening, I saw him, _Tony_, walking along the street holding hands with a woman. She had blonde hair, all nice and neat, and pristine makeup, and a little pink dress and high heels. Her toes were painted pink. To match her dress.

I finished my shopping and went home and ran a bath. I soaked, like they do in the movies, and found some old nail polish, a fierce, bright blue – it was Tali's colour, Tali's polish and I couldn't bear to throw it away – and painted my toes. Next, I sat in front of my mirror and picked up some lipstick. I had worn it before, but only ever for a case, for a purpose that usually involved seduction and death. It was red. I did not own mascara, foundation, these alien words that screamed at me from all the American magazines I pretended to relate to. I had some blue eye shadow – also Tali's, also Tali's – and blusher that I received one Christmas before my mother had realised that blushing would not be a part of my life. I did not have any high heels but I had a dress, green silk, that my father bought for me when I was 21 and returned home as his daughter for the very last time. I brushed my hair and wondered how other girls made it shine and sit so pretty.

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a child in a dressing up game. I took off the dress, ripped off the shoes, scrubbed my face and cried myself to sleep.

The next time I wore that dress, it was with him, and I let it slip to the floor around my feet whilst I felt his lips on my flesh. It was green silk, and I was beautiful. I felt beautiful, just for him. We had to pretend. It was so, so easy and so very hard. I tried to keep the smirk on my tongue but I couldn't. For a second, for the smallest amount of time there can be, I looked at him and saw only us in his eyes. Maybe he wanted it as much as me. Maybe just a little bit less.

He couldn't have wanted it more.


	3. A skull, a spider, a beating heart

**First time attempt at Abby's POV. Not sure if it's OK, I wanted it to be a bit more fun and rambly...like Abby...but I also wanted to show just how smart and insightful she actually is. And I didn't want to make her sound like a child. But hmmm. Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Yeah, _whatever_. **

I don't know why they think we can't all see it. For an ex-detective and a super-spy they really are remarkably unobservant. And reckless. The way they just...look at each other, as if no one else is watching. I know they think I don't see much, too wired up, far too young, but I do. I see it better than them. Perhaps better than anyone.

I've never been in love, and I can say that with certainty. Not even with Timmy, although sometimes I think he might have loved me. But I'm only young, and I'm not scared that it hasn't happened yet, and I won't be scared when it does, which it will.

They're both terrified out of their minds.

At first, it was funny. Cute, almost. Now...every day when it goes on, when even more stuff _doesn't happen _when it should, I bite my lip and wonder if there's a chance, a ugly, sneaky little possibility that it won't. That it never will.

No one likes a sneak, and this one's playing dirty. I don't want to have to get involved, but I will. I will be willing. I will be willing to use my will to will them together. I will I will.

Trouble is, I don't know how to start.

Although I love her – and I do – I've never been able to speak to Ziva like I did with Kate. Kate was a friend, an honest to God equal that I knew and understood. I don't know if I know Ziva – truly – but I'm sure as hell I don't understand her. Not all of her, anyway.

I tried to talk to Timmy about it once, but he pulled a face and wouldn't take me seriously. Then he yanked my pigtail and made it wonky, and I had to fix it, and then Major Mass Spec beeped and I got some pretty wild results, and had to call Gibbs down with a Caf-Pow and by the time I was done Timmy was gone, with his gun, and until they all got back I had to worry about them like a mother. Ironic, considering they all see me as the kid. But I see a lot more than they think. And I hear when they talk about things like soul mates and marriage, and I can tell when they had an argument, or a flippant conversation about sex that both of them took more seriously than they dared show, or when something has happened, they got shot at or something, and they both realise – just for a minute, an hour at most – how very important the other actually is.

Of course, she will joke about his eating habits and his bedroom tendencies, and he will tease her about her ninja-skills and the fact she doesn't have a boyfriend. And they'll get a slap on the head and carry on and pretend it really is that easy.

Sometimes I laugh at how stupid they think we all are. To think they could hide it from Jimmy is understandable. Ducky, unwise. He knows far more than he lets on. Perhaps I can understand Timmy, because he gets computers more than people, and is so immune to them anyway it's a wonder he notices at all. Vance stands at the top with wide spaced feet, surveying the place like a king or a god (I always imagine him as Thor, resplendent with a sack full of thunderbolts and dressed in a loincloth) but I'm not sure how much he actually observes. His eyes are inward-turning. They see himself.

But Gibbs? Perhaps Ziva doesn't know better – although she does, but whatever – but surely Tony of all people would appreciate just how little goes past my silver haired fox. He's like a coffee-powered polygraph. And I take it as a personal insult that they think, just because his eyesight is failing, his gut must be too.

Like I said, I've never been in love. But that doesn't mean that I don't know it, and I can't see it, because I do, and I can, and it's here. Just with a little less black lipstick than I'd hope for myself, but whatever. It's in their eyes, and they can't hide it.

**As I outlined before, eeeeeeeek! I'm not sure, I'm not sure, but I would adore reviews from every lovely person that reads this :) Danke!**


	4. Young love, old eyes

**Next instalment: Ducky's POV. Never done Ducky before (ooer) so I'm not sure if this will be realistic/believable at all, but I hope so :) Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: In this room, I own: the cup of coffee I am drinking, the orange Smarties I am eating, the clothes I am wearing and the nonsensical drabble of my thoughts. Oh, and that pen. However, I do not own NCIS.**

It's like I said, back in '92 - or was it '93? – Ah well, that's not important I suppose, although accuracy would be nice, and it is so very important to be precise in my line of work...well, anyway, as I was saying, sometimes the similarity makes me blink. Swap the red hair for dark and throw in a few dodgy idioms and it's like all those years back. The way his jokes will make her smile to herself – only when he's not looking, of course – and how she intimidates him. It's well known – Ziva intimidates everybody – but there's something about her presence that makes Tony...I don't know. Try.

He doesn't try, with anyone really. He's more a...a love me or leave me, take it or leave it kind of boy. Man. I keep forgetting. Eight years now. Going into nine. Gibbs must be proud.

It was never the same, before and after Caitlin. Seeing the hole in her head did something to me. I tried not to look at the gaping mess of the back of it. I couldn't bear it.

I'm a man of medicine. I don't believe that love is in the heart, the soul in the appendix. To me, everything is firing neurones, electrical impulses racing through the brain – anger, fear, excitement, uncertainty, lust, love. Friendship. Everything that Caitlin was was in that fragile cave, that delicate shell was _it_. When the bullet entered, it destroyed it all. She is dead – was then, is now – and it pains me to admit that I don't think her spirit is floating around the bullpen.

Memories are another matter altogether. What we remember of her is entirely different. That's still alive, but in _our_ brains, not hers, and when we die, that will be lost too. Tragic, one could say, but unavoidable. It's exactly like the situation back in Bolivia, when that poor woman – well, anyway, I diverge. I was talking about Tony and Ziva.

After Caitlin, after Ari, he was not the same. Perhaps he got better, matured as a man, realised some important truths. But the fact remains that there _was_ Caitlin, and there_ was_ Paula, and there_ was_ Jeanne, and there _was_ Jenny.

He has lost so many women. I don't think he can bear to lose another one.

One evening, it must have been just after he returned from that hellish ship (I had a most disagreeable stint when Gibbs was stationed as an Agent Afloat back in, oh, when was, it, quite early on in his time at NCIS...it wasn't for long, a month or so at most until he made such a fuss they sent him back to Washington with a note begging for him never to be returned) I found him in Autopsy, drinking all the bad memories away. You can't drown those electrical impulses. Memories will be with you forever. Sometimes, I don't know if it was entirely Jenny, or just a blur of dark hair, red hair, blonde hair, agents, friends, lovers that he had in some way let down. Disappointed. It must be hell. I know some of it. I gently took the bottle and drove him home. He did not cry.

When Gibbs quit – I mean, sorry, retired – all those years ago, now, it seems, I knew Tony was visiting Ziva, and she was visiting him. I never liked to ask what they spent their evenings doing. It was none of my business, and if and when I needed to know, I had absolute faith that I would be told.

Secretly, I hoped they were falling together, in some sense of the word. But I digress.

The similarity. The smirks, the glances, the whispered secrets. Undercover, under so many covers. Hard to ignore, really, and they didn't make it easy. But sometimes, with Tony and Ziva...all you can do is guess.

I had a love affair once. It was in London, the summer after I graduated from medical school. Awfully hot, that summer, and everyone spent their time out in the parks. It was there that I met Sally. Her real name was Susan, but she didn't like it. Sally Jane Tregowan. Privately, in my head, I thought that Sally Mallard sounded rather pleasant. Rolled off your tongue in a most agreeable way. I never told her. The summer ended, and she was off travelling to India. She wrote me a letter, met a wonderful man, and never came back.

Ziva has not met a wonderful man; or, rather, she has met many, and one of them was Tony. Not many people see it: I'll confess, I did not at first. Gibbs did. Gibbs always does. He saw it in Jenny, even when she fainted at the autopsy. I remember that day well, ah yes, he smirked down with a bemused expression and I knew they would be perfect. Heartbreak could not part them.

Death always does.

Now, it is Ziva smirking down at Tony, whilst he lies on the floor and plays the fool. The role he knows so very well it is almost as if it were true. He hides his damage well, as does she.

They are both lonely, fractured souls, screaming full of impotent rage - at the world, at fathers and lovers mostly, but other things too. Maybe one day they will stop raging and see that salvation lies solely in the other. Maybe; maybe not. But if it does happen, I will be here. Their continuity in a whirlwind, or so I like to think.

Ah! That reminds me of the time I was in Malaysia, fascinating country, unpredictable gales...but that's a story for another day, yes?

**Haha. First time at Ducky, not sure if I got it right but tried anyway :) And I'm not sure if Malaysia IS struck by a lot of whirlwinds, but it was the first country that came to my head...so, apologies if my shoddy research is not correct. I really wanted to highlight the parallels between Jibbs and Tiva, not sure if I did it very well but whatever, it was worth a try! Always love reviews :) ...**


	5. Thin, thin walls and restless sleep

**Well. Firstly, my Tiva-ometer is pretty much ricocheting off the scale with excitement. IT'S SO CLOSE! *Makes unintelligible, strangulated noises* I can hardly wait.**

**Secondly, this weekend I'm home alone, yippee, etc, so I might get the chance to update a LOT. Woohoo etc.**

**Thridly, I'm sorry this is so short but I wanted to keep updating as regularly as possible. So yeah.**

**And, um, I think that's it!**

**Notes: Because I haven't seen season 6 I don't know when/if Tony ever met Director David – here, I'm guessing it happened at some random point and Tony and Ziva were all normal with each other.**

**Enjoyyyyy :)**

Sometimes – I don't know. Sometimes it feels like all I ever do is pull myself away from her. It's like I'm drawn, compulsively, unwillingly. It's like all I ever do is notice her lips, her hair, her frightened, angry eyes. How tiny she is, under all the bravado and make up. It never used to be there. I liked it before.

When we met, she wore humour in her eyes and danger on her skin and she was so very raw and beautiful that I couldn't quite take my eyes off her. And now we both pulse with rage and desire and our unspoken, terrified souls.

We are both alone.

I remember, when Gibbs left – quit, retired, abandoned ship, abandoned me – and we started seeing each other out of work. Friendship, nothing more, nothing ever more. It felt odd, at first, but then it felt utterly, naturally right, and suddenly, we weren't so awkward and hostile. Suddenly, I could joke and touch her at the same time. We both knew the game. It was just a matter of who played best. And we're both so good at playing.

When she got set up – so long ago, a world ago – and Gibbs came back, and everything fixed itself all wonky, I saw her with new eyes, somehow. My stomach clenched when I caught glimpses of her skin that were usually hidden. Her hips, stomach, back. Once, I sat on a beam with her and watched as she was brave enough to defuse a bomb, but could not bring herself to ask a direct question. Not if it involved my love life. Not if it didn't involve her. And I'd gazed down her top with an abstracted interest. It was the first time I had been distracted from cleavage by conversation, and not the other way around.

The first time I met her father, I understood a few things. They clicked, and all it took was white and blue and an absent kiss. His cold, unfeeling fingers took her small hand and shook it and it was as though she was nothing to him.

That night, through the thin wall of the hotel, I heard the tears. She was lying, alone, in her bed, and she was crying because her father hadn't kissed her. And she was crying because the walls were thin, and because there was a pretty girl sleeping next to me, and because she heard everything.

I felt disgusted. I wanted to knock on her door and have her open it, stumbling, tear-glazed, hopelessly lonely, and just hold her, all night long.

I rolled a pillow on top of my head and willed myself into a dreamless sleep.

The next day, the make up was back, and she had a witty comment about my nighttime activities on the tip of her tongue, and all the little cracks had been resealed. And there was nothing I could do about it. So I smirked back. And off we went.

Sometimes – I don't know. Sometimes it feels like all I ever do is pull myself away from her.

**Please review, I appreciate muchly :)**


	6. AUTHOR'S NOTE

Firstly: THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER.

I'm really sorry if I got your hopes up (although I'm also kinda pleased, because it would suggest that you look forward to updates on my stuff, which would imply that you like it, which would indicate that I am a good writer, which would intimate that I could do this for a living one day. Btw, may I just point out my lovely use of Word Thesaurus just then?).

This is me simply updating you all as to my fascinating personal life. I know I generally tend to update frequently, if not regularly, and often it's every day. However, the last weekend/couple of days I haven't, so much. I really hate just disappearing on you guys, and on the whole community in general, so I am sorry. It might sound stupid but I feel as though I owe you an explanation. There's been a massive family emergency thing going on...while it's not an emergency in the sense of urgency, it's pretty devastating and I haven't really been able to do much other than cry and watch TV for the past couple of days. I don't know how long this will keep up but I WILL be back on here soon. Just wanted to let you all know.

Lots of love,

Bravo.


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